Mary Sue Productions
by Ria Saunders
Summary: A sideways look at the effect of Mary Sues on the larger world of Canon, rather than on the main characters.
1. All the Steps

All the Steps

People often decry the effect of non-canonical stories on the characters of Tolkien's canon, but don't recognize the real cost. There's a whole industry of professionals whose work goes into the process. This is their story.

Casting

He'd been making calls all morning, but the stack of scripts on his desk hadn't shrunk much. The casting director took a deep breath as he made his next call.

"Faramir, I've got a peach of a story for you. Starring role, of course, and before the War of the Ring, so it's wide open. The story's got lots of drama, it's not too long . . . You capture one of the captains of the Haradrim, and then, as you keep him in your secret hideout in Ithilien, he learns your language and gradually, love blooms – " A firm click indicated that he was now talking to himself. He sighed and tongued another antacid.

"Mitzi?" he said into the other line. "The lead in 'A Heart in Chains' is a no-go. You know the happy ones are the worst – they never want to work. See if you can get one of the stunt doubles to do the part."

He listened briefly. "Try Feremir and Fairamir first, then. They mostly remember their lines. Will you start making the calls on the second lead? All we need's a presentable guy from Harad." He flipped through the script as he spoke. "The usual: dark hair, big dark eyes – just make sure up front that he'll do nudity. I don't want another blow-up over their religious scruples."

He marked the script's cover page with notes as to where they were in the process and shoved it into the pile going to Mitzi with relief. He hadn't really expected to get The Name on that one, but he felt that it was his duty as a professional to try. Still, he made a point of picking out an easier one for his next call.

"Smeagol? Glad to catch you in. Look, I've got a role for you: top billing, a story of redemption and romance . . . Now, don't be like that. She's probably a lovely girl, and she's a HUGE fan. She wants to redeem you with her love so that you and she destroy IT together." He grinned as he said that, knowing his audience.

"Yes, of course, Smeagol. You'd carry it the whole way – from the Dead Marshes on."

He pressed his advantage. "I haven't even told you the best part. As a redeemed Ringbearer, you get a pass to Aman in this one and you have some scenes with Deagol, too." After five more minutes of soothing his lead actor, he was able to hang up.

Costume

"Okay, ladies – and you, too, Figwit – we've got a number three," the Wardrobe Mistress announced. She consulted her notes. "Just two dresses, lessee, 'a dress just like Arwen's, but blue and sparkly all over,' and 'a lacy elven nightgown.' Use your imagination on that one: it's only in one scene."

"Oh, Sweet Nienna, the Arwen Dress again," groaned Stephania, the Hobbit costumer. "I can't take it. I swear I'm transferring to another division when my next review comes up."

Although she'd spoken in an undertone, it didn't escape the sharp elven ears of her supervisor. "It's not so bad, Steph. You can cut the pattern in your sleep and you can always take out your feelings by spelling out 'Pretentious Twit' in the sequins, the way you and Leola did last time."

Stephania and her partner exchanged a guilty look at that, and the Wardrobe Mistress laughed. "Oh, we've all done that one – and besides, no-one who wants the Arwen Dress Special can read Angerthas. Well, at least not more than her name."

Sets

The head of the set construction crew held speed drills with her team while they waited for the final word on their new project. She was a hard-bitten dwarf who bellowed like a stevedore at anyone she saw slowing or slacking. Rumor had it that she'd once arranged a transfer to the Animal Wrangling Department for a crew member who didn't clear the set properly. They dreaded that more than her axe. From time to time they'd nudge each other when she looked annoyed and whisper, "Mumakil manure."

The crew chief patted the axe as they ran, grinning behind her beard. The _real_ story was that she'd sent a crew member to the Script Reading Department for not putting the stock sets away properly. She'd never tell them that, though: She didn't want to terrify them into making mistakes.

They were a pretty tight crew, she thought with satisfaction. Even now, racing through the drills, they looked confident. She decided to mix it up a little more. "What are our watchwords?" she hollered.

The answer came back, gratifyingly loud and unanimous. "SPEED! FLEXIBILITY! ATTENTION TO DETAIL!"

Just as she was about to shout back the traditional, "I can't HEAR you," the thrush she'd been expecting fluttered up. She offered it a snack and unstrapped the message canister from its leg.

"Rush job," the bird announced.

She opened up the canister and read the job specs. One full-scale Rivendell, complete with crystal palace, other locations to follow. She couldn't resist a sneer at the rickety and improbable building in the sketch, in which much of the living quarters teetered high atop the spindly towers, far from all necessities. At least she wouldn't have to live in the thing.

She raised her voice, "Playtime's over, lads and lasses! We've got a job." As the crew swarmed up to get their assignments, she added, "We're going to have to get _creative_ with this one. Perry, let's make the towers collapsible."

Production

The production assistant had managed to get his to-do list completely wrapped around his legs as he trotted after the second assistant director. He muttered to himself as he tugged at it.

"Exceptions we need to file: with Ulmo, for redirecting the Baranduin, the Loudwater and Anduin the Great; with Manwe, five exemptions from the laws of gravity, inertia and probability; with Mandos – " here he cringed, so that he dropped behind the assistant director, who hurried on, oblivious.

"With Mandos," he repeated, "to arrange for the spirits of Feanor, Finrod and Luthien to appear as ghosts. In Rivendell, no less!"

After he regained his breath and freed his legs, he ran after the assistant director. "Sir, I know you're busy, but do you know whether I can file the exception for Luthien with Mandos, or do I have to go . . . higher?" He gulped so anxiously on the last word that the assistant director actually stopped and took pity on him.

"You are new at this, aren't you? No-one actually knows what became of Luthien's spirit, since she partook of the Gift of Men with her husband. Anyways, working with Feanor and Felagund post-death is far too hair-raising. We don't need that kind of drama on set.

"Just get casting to find some likely haunts from the Dead Marshes. They're much easier to work with. As for the other exceptions, you can file the paperwork, but we'll probably end up shooting those scenes in some more malleable realm, like Xanth or Oz."

First Day of Production

The director surveyed the lead's trailer. "How's our special girl?" he asked the Uruk-hai standing on guard. The Uruk grunted and shrugged towards the door. A hand-lettered sign tacked to it read, "Lady Eruiel, long-lost sister of Lord Elrond, who got amnesia in the Sons of Feanor's attack on the Havens. Lost to herself, she never made the choice between elf and mortal. What will she choose, and will it be the Prince of Mirkwood or the King of Gondor who sways her heart?" Beneath that, another hand had added raggedly, "Why, dear Eru, why?"


	2. Trying Times

Trying Times

Wrangling

"Shh, shh, my lovely," the Rider soothed the horse as he combed out its mane and began to braid in the next fistful of pink ribbons. "It's not dignified for one of the Mearas, I know, but at least the client knows the best. Anyways, Hild's coaching her on her riding skills, so she'll have any nonsense beaten out of her before she so much as touches your girth."

He stopped and looked up at a hasty knock on the stable door. Reluctantly, he put down the currying tools and went to the entrance. The wargs snapped at him from their pen as he passed, but he didn't even spare them his usual curse.

When he opened the door, he found a dwarf standing in the early twilight. The fellow balanced a long, skinny box that looked as if it might hold a slender sword. "Yes?"

"Delivery for you fellows," the dwarf said. "Sign the slip and I'm done."

"What is it?"

Uncharacteristically for his laconic folk, the dwarf began to giggle. "They didn't tell you, did they? Oh, you poor bastard. Please believe me: this wasn't our idea at the shop."

"What is it?" he repeated, beginning to feel tightness in his chest. The dwarf just shook his head and pointed at the package.

He ripped at the string, then pulled the lid free. Inside, something long and slender glimmered, not with the silvery sheen of metal, but soft and pearlescent. He pulled it out. The long spiral tapered to a wicked point, but didn't look like much of a weapon, since it completely lacked a handle.

"What is it, some kind of foreign lance head?"

"No, you innocent. It's a unicorn's horn." At his blank look, the dwarf explained, "You glue it onto a horse's head to dress it up as some kind of imaginary animal. The client wants a unicorn."

Make-up

The normally self-controlled head of the Makeup Department kept sneaking glances at her guest, the newest transfer to her department, as she led him around. She showed him the separate building that housed wigs, with its glowing vats of unnaturally tinted dyes and weirdly lustrous hairpieces. He made no comment and asked very few questions as she showed him the variety of skin creams, blushes and eye shadows and the thousand different implements for applying them.

Finally, when they'd reached her office (where her assistant had scurried out as if pursued by Balrogs, probably not to be seen again until he'd smoked the last of his pipeweed) she asked the pertinent question.

"Tell me, Lord Feanor, what makes you want to pursue a career in Makeup? From what I understand, it's not in line with either your previous experience or inclinations."

The tall Noldorin lord shuffled his feet uncomfortably for a moment before sticking out his jaw and retorting, "You've already accepted my transfer, Mistress, so what is it to you?"

She called on all of her strength to answer calmly, "Of course, a craftsman of your caliber is welcome anywhere. However, if you are to work in my department, it will help both of us to have a clear idea of your interests and aptitudes. So speak candidly, Lord Feanor: what about Makeup appeals to you?"

"Well," he answered after a moment, "I've always been devoted to the creation of beauty, and . . . and after all this time making things . . . the Props department doesn't pose much of a challenge for me. So I guess I'm looking for a challenge," he finished with more conviction.

"What part of the job interests you most? I must warn you, we have close and sometimes prolonged contact with the clients in this department. There are times when they try even the Ents' patience. Do you feel confident that you can hold your temper under those circumstances?"

A flush crept up his face and his eyes narrowed as she spoke. _Now we come to it_, she thought. _If he's going to lose his temper with a client and get us all fired, I'd better know now_.

"Mistress, please understand, I have no interest in _applying_ makeup. I heard that your department was having difficulties because the clients often need to be 'rosy-skinned' in one scene and then 'elven fair' in the next, along with the problem of the multicolored eyes and hair.

"I trust you will believe me when I say that I have an unrivaled knowledge of the properties of metals and stones among the Children of Iluvatar. I've been thinking for some time that a proper compound of finely ground metal with powdered colored stones or glass could be added to makeup that would reflect different colors under different lighting. Then you would only have to make the client up once. The standard lighting scheme calls for clients to have their own tinted spotlight at all times, so they could easily bring out whatever color they needed in each scene."

"What a novel idea. You do indeed have a lot to offer this department." She could feel further implications of his idea bubbling up in her mind: Feanor might have found the solution to their Mystical Birthmarks of Power problem. "That would save a lot of time. But ground metals and glass? Is that safe to apply to skin?"

"Well, it wouldn't cause any permanent damage. Metal toxicity is generally a matter of exposure over time, and I can educate your people on the proper precautions."

"And the clients?"

"They wouldn't suffer any side effects, at least not during the course of the production."

She decided not to probe the implications of that statement too deeply. "I see. Have you given any thought to the subject of hair dyes, Lord Feanor?"


	3. True Colors

True Colors

Make-up

Lord Feanor had settled in nicely. He had appropriated one of the back buildings entirely for his special projects, but allowances could be made for an artist of his genius. Already word had come back that the client known as Lady Eruiel was delighted with her silver-shining hair and its customized highlights (green under starlight, blue under moonlight, and purple in the presence of orcs). Although he hadn't mentioned it to the Make-up Mistress, who'd looked like a woman to remember things against one, he enjoyed his new work more than he had anything in the last three thousand years.

As much as Feanor liked to work alone, he had rediscovered the convenience of assistants. He had none of the Sindarin prejudice against Naugrim, and had taken on a trio of dwarves. They were handy fellows, extremely knowledgeable about metal and respectful to the point of worship of a craftsman who had learned directly from Lord Aule. On the Make-up Mistress' advice, he'd also hired a hobbit. Young Frodo Gamgee did whatever he asked quickly and correctly, but still needed some watching. The boy kept pestering him about fireworks.

As if summoned by the thought, the young hobbit trotted up. He grinned broadly as he slapped the paper he carried into Feanor's hand.

"Master Feanor, you got it! The Producers sent a blanket approval!"

"What blankets?" Feanor still had a hard time understanding the hobbit's idioms at times, but as he opened the letter, he saw what the lad meant.

"You're right, Frodo. This is great news. 'Seeing that Lady Celadon named herself, we fully support your effforts to develop her characterization in line with her own wishes, and are emending the Company's policies and procedures to reflect this precedent for future similar situations.' That is a broader scope than I asked for. It looks as if the Costume Department will also be giving her all celadon."

Eyes shining with awe, the hobbit momentarily looked as star-struck as Feanor's dwarven assistants. "If only you'd been here last year for Lady Indigo and Princess Scarlet! I was working in the landscaping trade, for sets, you know, and if only someone had thought to put Princess Scarlet in a bright red outfit – ! She liked to sneak in between scenes and move the sets around, so that she could faint in soft grass in every scene, and so that Legolas could pick her roses whenever he wasn't fighting Boromir for her affections."

Feanor raised a brow. "Aren't all those set changes written into the script, ridiculous as they are?"

"Well, of course, but special, lovely Princess Scarlet had to keep changing them in every scene!" Feanor's usually cheerful assistant flushed with rage at the memory, and his small fists balled.

"Now, Frodo, at least that story's over with, and if there's ever a sequel, she'll be scarlet indeed, from tip to toe. Why don't we head over to Craft Services, and lay out the schedule for this next project?" He'd mentioned Craft Services to soothe the hobbit's temper, and it worked as he'd known it would. Frodo's usual sunny smile returned as he led Feanor towards the food tents, chattering about the latest news he'd heard on set.

Craft Services

The lines at Craft Services were dominated by hobbits, as usual. Feanor went to find a table while Frodo rounded up the food. The hobbit found a second cousin far up in the line and joined her there, waving to show that he'd heard the elf's request.

Feanor called after him, "At least a triple shot, remember! Milk's fine, but _no foam_!" Frodo knew, of course. He fetched at least two espressos a day for the Noldo, and knew that nothing roused his legendary temper like weak coffee.

He found a table occupied only by an Ent Teamster drinking thoughtfully out of a bowl of Ent-draught. He greeted the Ent in Sindarin, but the creature took another long pull of his drink without answering. He dismissed it with a shrug; any Ent that worked in the mostly-orcish Teamster crew was probably three-quarters Huorn.

Young Frodo took a long time returning with the food, as usual. Hobbits took to buffets like a thirty-year-old elf to miruvor, but without a hangover to teach them moderation. Rumor had it that after the first year of production, Craft Services had refused to hire any more hobbits, since the little folk's cooking skills were matched by their voracious appetites. Feanor whiled away the time by listening to a pair of Gondorian extras gossiping in Quenya at the next table.

"Hador, you can't imagine how embarrassing it was," the nearer one said, gesturing with a bandaged hand.

"You mean Lady Eruiel? I can imagine a lot," his comrade answered.

"Well, then, picture this: Half-way through the battle for Pelennor Fields, the Props department came to replace her bow."

"Her bow?"

"Apparently when they saw the dailies, she wasn't putting her arrows anywhere near the Haradrim. She managed to shoot one of the Swan Knights – _behind her_." Hador groaned in sympathy at that, and his friend continued. "So this dwarf ran up with a new bow for her. All the arrows are blunt-tipped and made of reeds, and the bow has some sort of special inlay that flashes every time it fires."

"What's the point of that?" The second Gondorian seemed puzzled, and Feanor might have asked the same thing, if he hadn't been wondering how exactly the Naugrim had managed the flashing trick.

The other shook his head, laughing almost too hard to continue. "Come, now, Hador, haven't you guessed? It's so the orcs know when to fall down!"


End file.
